


A Coalition of Lions

by abernathy



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Nicaise Lives, Slow Burn, confused damen, does it count as arranged marriage if laurent arranged it?, laurent was a scheming bitch since he was like ten, mentions of the regent's nastiness, the regent can choke, this is not an auguste lives au and i havent forgiven myself for it yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-25 07:04:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9808481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abernathy/pseuds/abernathy
Summary: After a long-coming yet inevitable coup from the Regent leaves Laurent unprotected and unwanted in his own kingdom, there is only one king he could ally himself with and one way he can make that happen. Marriage would have been politics anyway, nevermind the fact Damianos of Akielos is the man Laurent swore to kill six years ago.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why did i post this when i have an unfinished fic and my premed classes are starting on monday? haha because i hate myself but also because in this fic the regents gonna choke eventually and thats the Dream
> 
> rewritten on 20/2

The first time the Second Prince of Vere visited the Akielon Court, Damen was fifteen and dreadful of having to make nice with people he’d heard all his life to be arrogant, self-righteous and snake-like. Then, his shoulders had only recently started to broaden, his height was below average for the usual Akielon teen, and he used his dark curls over his eyes as a defense mechanism. He knew what he must have looked like for his Veretian guests: a brute in-the-making, impolite and resentful of ever being dragged out of the fighting pit he spoke so fondly of. It didn’t matter that his father and brother later scolded him for his behavior. The Veretians were friends only in the shallow treaties his father signed. 

Yet as the time passed Damen made an effort to leave the shell of his own prejudices and took the first step to reach out to his father’s guests of honor. He was a little obsessed at fifteen, having fallen behind at training because his growth spurt was taking too long to come, and so there was no surprise when he fell into a fragile yet sincere friendship with Auguste of Vere, the Crown Prince; they were of similar age and both expected to succeed at sword fighting, as commanders of armies. Auguste was everything the rest of the Veretian entourage was not: welcoming, easy-going and a fastidious sort of young man when it came to the manual work of a fellow soldier. Damen found that he did not have to pretend when he was around. It was different with small Laurent, though that too had been predictable, since he was only ten and more preoccupied with his books and the fine arts than with forced diplomacy. 

Damen did not mind that the little prince didn’t go out of his way to befriend him, though when they did spend time together, he found within himself an unfair dislike for the boy merely for the fact that he was the center of Auguste’s world. Having grown with a brother like Kastor, seeing the uninhibited affections between the Veretian brothers was off-putting and incited a previously unknown feeling of jealous. There was a time during their visit—a sunny afternoon in which neither crown prince had business to attend—in which they were all by the lakeside having a picnic that Laurent insisted on because he wanted to watch the swans. Laurent’s little eyes shone at the sight of the pretty white animals, foreign to him as they did not exist in Vere, but he had to squint to see them, because he was too small to step on even the shallowest part of the lake and get a better view. Damen had found him dear then, so different from the usual Akielon ten-year-old, and spoke absently with Auguste about a campaign the Veretian prince was expected to lead to the borders close to Vask. 

He’d observed Laurent for a long time, from the corner of his eye, and wondered what it must be like to have a little brother to care for. Finally he turned to Auguste and said, rather impolitely, “Do you not have common sense and see that your brother wants you to take him closer to the swans?” 

Auguste did not mind his tone, instead throwing his head back in wild laughter at his straightforwardness. He said, “I’ve noticed, but I’m wearing a golden tunic and leather boots, and mother would kill me if I ruined them.” 

Damen doubted it; he’d gone to Vere once before when Laurent was only a babe and Queen Hennike wasn’t ill, and seen the kind of love she had for her children. Still he rolled his eyes at his friend’s excuses and looked down on the plain chiton and sandals he was wearing. He shoved the bread in Auguste’s direction and his friend watched the entire time, confused, as Damen leaned down to take off his shoes. It dawned on him, finally, and he grinned widely enough that it reached his eyes. He called in a lazy voice, chucking a piece of bread that would fit in his brother’s tiny hand, “Laurent, take off your boots.” 

The little prince turned to look at his brother, puzzled, but obeyed him either way. Damen had already been feeling jealous of the relationship between the two brothers, but it hit him like a slap to the face that this was what should have been his childhood with Kastor. He took the bread from Auguste’s hands, ran all the way to where Laurent was at the edge of the water, and scooped the princeling up. Laurent squeaked, his boyish voice adorable, but it soon turned into laughter when he was placed on Damen’s shoulders and he realized that they were breaching water. He grabbed at the bread, annoyed that he couldn’t reach it, but soon forgot about it as Damen swam closer to the swans. Laurent let out a little whiny noise when they stopped a few meters away from the birds. 

“Your Highness, they bite. It would be dangerous to get too close.” 

“But…” sputtered Laurent. He sounded like he might cry. 

Damen chuckled. “Don’t be upset, little prince. You can feed them from here even if you cannot touch them.” To demonstrate, he chucked a small piece of the bread in his hand and threw it in between two swans. Laurent gripped his curls, delighted, and watched as they swam closer and leaned down to eat it. “Do you want to try?” 

“Yes!” Laurent flapped his arms excitedly. He accepted the bread Damen was handing him, extended an arm to aim and stuck his tongue out in concentration. 

Gently, “No, Your Highness, not those two again,” said Damen. He pointed at another group of swans a little farther away to their left. “Or they will get so full they will explode.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” said Laurent through giggles. “Swans don’t explode.” 

The princeling said all this while turning on Damen’s shoulders and aiming at the swans Damen had pointed at. It took a while, considering he couldn’t aim while he laughed, but finally Laurent threw the piece of bread towards the birds. The intent was correct, and his aim accurate; it was his strength that lacked. They both watched expectantly as it made an arc in the air and fell only a couple of meters away from where Damen was standing. Then, he’d been a little disappointed, but he shouldn’t have expected much more from a ten-year-old with little to no interest in muscle-building activities. He swam back until the distance between them and the floating bread was twofold. Laurent whined when he saw that the swans were making way to where he’d thrown the food, a lot closer to where they previously were, but complaining gave way to delightedness quickly. 

“They’re eating my bread!” 

Damen laughed and said, “Yes, they are, Your Highness.” 

Little Laurent was in ecstasy atop his shoulders. He only took his eyes away from the birds eating to look back at where Auguste was sitting at the grass, entertaining a glass of wine and looking at them with a lethargic smile. Damen could only see it from the corner of his eye, but Laurent’s happiness was mimicked in Auguste. It had been that way since they had come from Arles at the start of summer, like they were two ends tied to an unbreakable vital cord. Auguste saw that he was being observed and raised his glass in praise, which only cause Laurent’s laughter to increase in volume and shaking. Damen raised his hands to rest on Laurent’s knees so that he wouldn’t fall down on the water. He doubted Queen Hannike would be as forgiving of him as of her children if he were to spoil their golden clothing. 

Raising his head so he could look at the little prince, Damen said, “My caretaker was a big animal lover. She took me on walks on this very lake when I was even younger than you are, and smaller. She’d put me on her shoulders like we are doing now and teach me about the animals that live here. Did you know,” he whispered, “that when swans mate, they stay together for life?” 

They were speaking Veretian, because Damen was fluent and Laurent could only understand a few ceremonial sentences of Akielon, but it was obvious that had not previously been in the princeling’s vocabulary. Laurent’s tiny hands pulled on Damen’s curls until his neck was aching and they were staring at each other in the eye, dark brown to cloudless-sky blue. Laurent was frowning. “Mate?” 

“Yes. That is when a swan finds another they could never let go of,” said Damen. 

The little prince, in all his innocence, beamed and looked back at his brother. “Like me and Auguste!” said Laurent, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed. 

 

The second time Damen saw Laurent, Laurent was twelve and they were at his mother’s funeral. It was a long-coming event, as Queen Hennike had been on her sickbed for over two years now and news of her illness had been going around the kingdoms for longer than that. It was an unknowable and incurable disease; Vere had been getting doctors from all over the continent for years now, Akielons included, but her death had turned into a certainty even then. Damen wasn’t struck with grief at hearing the news of her departure, but it hadn’t been an easy thing to hear. Queen Hennike had been, much like Auguste, kind and warm-hearted even to a close-minded Akielon such as himself. 

The funeral was dragged and filled only with Veretian nobility and royalty from Vere’s most important allies. King Aleron and his two sons were dressed in black and held on to the golden chest where her most prized possessions were put into, to be buried alongside her, as was Veretian tradition. At the beginning of the ceremony, each of them had placed something they associated with her in it. King Aleron had deposited with care the saddle of the late mare which had been his wedding gift to her. Auguste, with his eyes closed and tears rolling free across his face, had put in her favorite bracelet, which he had explained had been made by a Patran childhood friend of hers. It didn’t surprise Damen that Laurent’s gift was more complicated; the princeling had one item in each hand at the start of the funeral, and as his father and brother placed their presents within the chest he looked between his two objects, a piece of painted paper and a large dark book, as if he had not yet decided what to put in. Finally the priest conducting the ceremony told him to step forward. Laurent did, but by then the book had vanished from his left hand and he put inside the paper, with careful words about his mother’s unknown love for painting. When Auguste nudged him, he retrieved his gift from the chest, looked at it with a crease between his brows, and displayed it to the guests. It wasn’t a professional painting at all, but the picture was identifiable: from a first-person point of view, King Aleron was lying in bed beside the Queen, and between them were two children, one nearly a teen and the other barely a toddler. 

Something had changed within Laurent then, though Damen could not be sure whether it was something linked to his mother’s death. He was sad, of course, because it was known across kingdoms how close to her children Queen Hennike had been, but he was also colder, and held himself as no twelve-year-old should. His uncle, hand clasped on his shoulder in a quiet gesture of protection, didn’t leave his side until the funeral ended. 

Damen might have commented on his cold ways, but he was seventeen then, and his interest could be taken wrongly. Besides, for the entirety of the funeral his arms had been full with greeting ambassadors and Veretian Council Members. By the time he managed some time for himself, Laurent was already amiss. 

The longing in his chest had been both inexplicable and startling. Damen had a good relationship with both princes, not going as far as calling either of them a friend—even with Auguste, it was more of an acquaintanceship that evolved for whatever brief time they were together—and yet, as he stood at the dead center of the Throne Room and stared at the small throne that should have been occupied by Laurent, he wished there was something concrete he could do to bring back giggly, swan-loving Laurent from wherever he’d been hidden. 

When he asked Auguste where Laurent was, later that evening when the Crown Prince had calmed down and finally had an opening, Auguste had absentmindedly that Laurent had gone to a pond near the castle to feed the ducks. A sense of excitement grew inside Damen and he asked to be led there, for he wanted to have a chat with the young prince. Auguste conceded and gestured for any of his servants to lead him to the pond. The name of the young man who walked with him as Eloi—and Damen only remembered his name because he’d beckoned him to his rooms later that night, mindful of the same-sex Veretian tradition—and he was curt and polite, the way most Veretians in the place were. He turned when he saw Damen had located the prince, nodded at the soldiers who were chaperoning him, and went back to where he’d come from. 

Damen blinked and took a step closer to where Laurent was at the edge of the water. He had grown enough that he could stand at the shallow margins of the water and not drown, but he wasn’t looking at the birds now. Damen took a step forward, extending his hand though he wasn’t anywhere near enough to touch the princeling. Laurent didn’t notice him. He had his head down, and he was holding the same moss-colored book from the ceremony. Pages of it—whatever it was—were floating and soaking over the water, all around the pond, and the sound of Laurent ripping page after page was ugly, like he was delivering fatal blows at each movement of his hands. He was crying. 

Damen pressed his lips into a flat line, extended his arm further, and changed his mind. He threaded his fingers into his hair and turned around, setting himself on a slow, hopeless pace. 

 

When they saw each other again, the game had already changed, though not blatantly enough that they had dispensed with pleasantries. Damen had been sent to Vere in a last futile attempt at stopping the upcoming war, though the armies had already been formed and the tents, raised. It was a formality; something that the kings deemed necessary to justify their lust for more lands. Damen didn’t like that the Veretians had tried to conquer Akielon territory, but he thought war an extreme measure from his father. Still, he was eager to impress the king and build up an even bigger reputation than he already had with the army. As it was, diplomacy came with the office of a crown prince. He stayed as a guest of honor during the cold winter that preceded the Delphic War. 

Auguste was the one that he saw the least during his visit, as the Veretian Crown Prince was busy with strategies and the naming of soldiers and noblemen for the front lines. King Aleron, he saw frequently, as the two were supposed to be in the talks of a peace agreement, and Laurent too, because the little prince—not so little anymore at the age of thirteen—spent a lot of his time walking around the halls of the palace or then in the stables caressing and exercising his mare. 

Riding, Damen found, was his only escape, as he wasn’t particularly fond of the usual Veretian entertainment—pets fucking left and right while their masters drank wine and schemed—and made an unexpected riding partner out of Laurent. The princeling never said much, and if he remembered the day Damen had taken him to feed the swans, he didn’t show it, an expression of utmost focus on his face, as if riding were the most serious thing in the world. He did speak when they were at the stables together, usually with an abundance of sarcasm and crude jokes that he had learned from the pets, but Damen found that if they weren’t at the brink of war, they could have turned into a semblance of friends. 

With the palace as a great enemy of his, Damen quickly found that his time with Laurent was the only one worth expectant for—as not even his hours training with his men was a good thing, anymore, as they were all always with their eyes wide in an attempt to prepare better for the war. Every day after lunch he had a servant dress him in Akielon riding fashion, ran down the stairs to the stables, and walked to the second to last stall, where he had stored his stallion. Sometimes, Laurent was there already, sat on a stool and brushing the hair of his white mare, Alais, named after a horse companion on a Veretian book that Queen Hennike used to read him when he was a babe. Laurent had explained she was a gift from Auguste last summer, when he outgrew ponies and was first pointed out as an excellent rider. She was really a beauty; nearly of the same size of Damen’s stallion, entirely white and with a part of her mane braided, much like Laurent himself styled his fast-growing hair. 

“When I was younger,” Laurent said, as though he weren’t young now, “my brother and I would race at Chastillon. He let me win always, but it took me years of riding to see it. I merely thought had a very fast pony.” 

Damen had smiled upon hearing these words. Most of the time, Laurent held himself like he was much older than thirteen, an untouchable ice prince, fair-headed and laced up from head to toe, but there were times like this one in which he gave out how young he truly was. Hearing him say it, Damen could picture the boy at the Akielon lake again, astride a pretty pony and giggling like he had giggled at the swans that day, Auguste holding his own stallion back so as to not go past Laurent on the finish line. The image filled his belly with warmth. 

“Of course now it’s not like that,” said Laurent. “My Alais remains _invicto_ to this day.” 

Laurent never went back to being the giggly boy who loved the swans, but sometimes Damen would catch him staring longingly at the pond and its ducks, and it filled him with hope and a feeling that he couldn’t describe. 

 

Damen didn’t see Laurent in the war until the very end, when the news of Prince Auguste’s death rippled across the camps. He didn’t remember much of the fighting itself, intoxicated by the flavor of killing and the euphoria of knowing he had just won his kingdom the Delphic War. Around him, the last of the fighting ceased, men who hadn’t heard before of the fight between the heirs. The cheering around him had become hazy at best, like someone had put a shell against his ear just at the apex of his conquests. Killing in battle and killing in duel were two very different things, and Auguste had been his friend. 

Below him there was the corpse of a man who was once to rule a kingdom, and the sword in his hand felt heavier than it did most days. It was impossible not to notice the terrifying silence that came from where the Veretians stood watching. Damen couldn’t take his hands off the body, spread over the mud-covered grass in a mix of its own blood and the blood of his people. Auguste’s eyes were still wide with shock, and they would be that way forever until somebody came to shut them close. It was as disturbing as it sounded: icy-blue eyes, same as tiny Laurent’s at the edge of that lake where they all watched the swans together, to stare at him for all eternity. “ _Brother of_ _Akielos_ ,” Auguste had said the first time they met, “do you want to see my new pony?” 

It was impossible to know for how long Damen would have stood there looking Auguste in the eye if Nikandros, his brother-in-arms and soon-to-be kyros of Delpha, hadn’t clasped his shoulder, shaken him roughly in a camaraderie gesture, and congratulated him on his killing. It was rather rude, but Damen himself still bore most of his prejudices against Veretians. He did not blame his countrymen for acting on the same ideals. 

“Thank you, my friend,” Damen said. The words were bitter on his tongue. “You fought well today.” 

Nikandros lowered his head in thank. “I am only glad we are all alive,” he said, and moved on to celebrate with his fellow soldiers. 

It was not true, but Damen let him be. He turned slowly, afraid to look fully away from the body as if the spirit of the dead prince would come back to haunt him, and when his back faced the Veretian camp, it was like a weight was lifted from his shoulders. Suddenly, he could breathe again. Ahead of him, an entire camp of festivities and proud countryman waited for him, and Damen could see his father atop his horse near the kyroi's tents, a rare smile on his face. It was so much that for a moment he let himself forget what he had done and, with a particular flavor of cruelty on his tongue, Damen smiled. 

A moment was all it took. The Veretian whispering ceased, as did most of the cheers amongst the Akielons. Damen frowned, but only until the iron blade of a sword nudged him on the shoulder Auguste had ran his sword through minutes ago in battle. There wasn't enough strength to pierce through armor and skin, but the pain was enough that Damen fell to his knees, panting and with a startled shout. He was lucky he hadn't sheathed his sword yet. By the time he managed to get it raised in a defensive movement, the other swordsman had already attacked a second time. 

It was not a fight. Damen turned around, easily deflecting the poorly-handled sword. He delivered a single brutal blow, with full strength and all the speed he could gather in his position. He had only a moment to catalogue what Laurent looked like now, long-haired and nearly fourteen and a sort of fair-skinned divinity, because suddenly he heard Laurent's wrist popping, and the sword he'd been yielding was on the ground. Knowing him, the best Damen could do was be still and wait for Laurent to take his sword again and start on a new wave of attacks. Laurent's golden hair was over his eyes, reaching way down his shoulders by now, but he could only imagine what hatred was hidden behind it. Auguste had been Damen's friend, but to Laurent he had been his world. 

Laurent did not bend over to pick his sword and resume fighting. He dropped to his knees instead and crawled to where his brother's body lay on the ground. Damen had only seen him cry so openly one time, and then Laurent did not know that he had an audience. Seeing the tears roll freely from his eyes was a sign of his desperation. He sobbed, much like a toddler would have done, and buried his face on Auguste's chest, where the blood had not yet spread. 

"You _promised_ ," he said, his voice small and faulty with youth. "Auguste, you stupid fucking—You said you'd read me mom's poems when you got back. _You promised_." 

Damen shut his eyes. He dropped his sword in an inconsequential rush, not bearing to be so close to this anymore, and deliberately let the energy of his brother soldiers swallow him as he walked back to Akielon camp. When Laurent called him a murderer, time and time again, his voice low and full of hate, Damen pretended Akielos' cheers were enough to drown his voice out. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't I tell y'all I hadn't discontinued this?? Finally I am on vacation and stumbling out of a huge writer's block. This is my favorite story I'm currently working on, so let's GO

Damen didn’t know how long he’d been in the Council chamber listening to old men bicker over futile things, but he was fairly certain another ten minutes of it would be his undoing. He’d long ago stopped pretending to be interested in their matters of the Court and ancient family feuds. His cupbearer had made a point of keeping his cup full of wine at all times; his brother, of enticing the bickering even further, if only to irritate Damen, as brothers usually did. Damen payed half a mind to him, sitting on the next chair, a smug expression on his face as he spoke about the injustice that had been done to Lord Drako when a less fortunate noblewoman rejected his proposal. The other Councilors fussed as he spoke, their heads nodding so hard it was impossible their necks weren’t hurting already.

Damen looked out the window to gauge the time. The sun had already ridden far west, and, with a frown, he wondered where Nikandros might be. Though this Council meeting was particularly dull, it wasn’t of his character to miss out on his duties. Nearly two hours ago he’d been told of a commotion near the East entrance of the palace and gone out to fix it. As previous Captain of the Guard, he knew better than anyone how to diffuse messes caused by riled up soldiers or commoners who’d had too much to drink and were making a mess near the palace. It shouldn’t have taken him more than half an hour, and, if the proportions of the rally were big enough to detain him for that long, Damen figured he would have been told of it. He combed his fingers through his hair and looked out to the doors. To see them open would be a dream come true.

He gestured to one of the guards near the doors and watched as the man walked towards him. It was one of Makedon’s men, who had fought alongside Damen in more than one war, but Damen couldn’t for the life of him remember his name. He said instead, “Find out where Nikandros has run off to and tell him that if I have to suffer through this, then so does he.”

The guard said, “He was off to part a rally near the gates, Exalted.”

“And it’s taken him two hours to do so? Find him and bring him here.”

With a nod, the guard turned and went off to complete his task. He stopped by his partner, likely to explain where he was going, but before he could reach for the door handle, three strong knocks sounded loud in a brief moment of silence in the room. The men looked from one face to another in a clear question of who it might be. Most of them didn’t seem to notice Nikandros was still gone, because they looked at Damen for guidance until Damen rolled his eyes and told whoever to enter.

A bright-eyed slave entered the room with disheveled hair and quick breaths. He seemed desperate, almost, but he prostrated himself to the ground when the attention of his King laid on him. Damen’s lips nearly quirked; Timotheos had always been a particularly blushing young man, even when he was enveloped by his arms at the height of passion. He gave the slave a proper meeting and watched as Timotheos raised himself slightly so he was sitting on his legs rather than pressing his forehead to the ground.

“This slave has been sent to tell the Exalted the commotion at the East gates requires his attention.”

Damen frowned. “Nikandros sent you?”

“Yes, Exalted,” Timotheos said. “This slave is to accompany the Exalted to where the Kyros is with the prisoner.”

The words got his attention. Ever since becoming King, there were very few things he needed to treat directly. Damen found almost hilarious that there was a man for nearly every job he thought to take; someone who gave time to the poor, so he wouldn’t waste his own, someone who signed his less important documents, despite it seeming fraudulent, someone who sent for servants even before he could, though it wouldn’t take him more than a few mumbled words to do so. Nikandros wouldn’t take his King’s time unless it was for something important. Damen rose from his seat without sparing a glance to his councilors and watched as they did the same.

“Men, you are free to continue the Court’s issues for today without my presence. I am sure if any problems arrive, my brother will be happy to advocate for me. If you will excuse me,” he said, and waited for Timotheos to stand up before exiting the room.

The slave was sure on his steps as they went, but his nervousness seemed to have almost completely evaporated now that he had his back to his King. Damen wondered if Nikandros hadn’t sent for him only to save him from the meeting and decided that he had no truer friend. As they walked around the palace to the East, he was wondering what gifts he could give to his Kyros that he would appreciate. Nikandros more often than not returned his gifts without a moment’s thought, claiming that he didn’t need pleasing like the rest of the Court did, but Damen never stopped insisting. He had more money stored in banks than he could ever spend, even if he wanted to, on State matters, and he liked to give physical tokens of his gratitude to his closest. He was confident Nikandros would understand that eventually.

It was soon imminent, however, that he hadn’t just been called in an act of kindness to take him away from the Council. At the end of a corridor, Damen made to turn right so he could reach the Eastern gates, but found that Timotheos had turned left instead. Damen frowned. To that end of the palace there was only the Queen’s wing, a handful of rooms that hadn’t been used ever since his mother had died, and her gardens beyond it. He wondered, not without motive, whether the rally had reached so far inside the palace. Damen put a hand to his sword. The silence in the corridors of the wing, when he followed Timotheos, was nerve-inducing and made him shrink into himself with memories. Nikandros knew what this place did to him; he wouldn’t have summoned him for nothing.

“You are sure we are on the right path?”

Timotheos shrunk at what he must have taken as a reprimand. “Yes, Exalted. The Kyros said it was important no one saw where we are in the palace.”

Damen found that odd. He trusted the people in the palace wouldn’t betray him so blatantly as to follow him around; the guards were too loyal and the nobles too afraid of discovery to do it. Still, Damen only nodded and gestured for Timotheos to continue down his path. He replayed the words he’d been told earlier: Nikandros was waiting for him with a prisoner. It was the only reasonable justification for the secrecy, but Damen couldn’t think of what could be so important about a commoner’s rally at the palace entries. He steeled himself for a fight as they reached the end of the maze of corridors.

Timotheos entered a room at one of the corridors closest to the gardens, empty after so long with no use, then turned back around and exited without another word. Damen frowned after him before gathering strength to face whatever was waiting. He turned to the end of the room and found that Nikandros was sitting on a chair facing his way, a severe expression on his tanned face. His eyes weren’t on Damen, which was enough to give away the severity of the situation. In front of him, someone with a deep purple cape was draped on the floors.

“Nikandros,” Damen said. He didn’t step forward. “What is the meaning of this?”

Nikandros’ eyes finally left the prisoner and found his King’s. His mouth was pressed into a thin line as he passed the back of his hand fleetingly to it, in a familiar gesture of frustration. He stood up from the chair and bowed his head only after a long time, like he wanted to be respectful of Damen’s title but didn’t trust the prisoner in the room with them long enough to put his attention elsewhere.

“I am still trying to understand it myself,” he said, then tugged down on the hood of the prisoner’s cape to reveal a head of bright, blonde hair.

For a moment, Damen didn’t understand what he was seeing. The hair was long and light colored in an unusual fashion in Akielos, and at first he thought he might be looking at Jokaste from behind, but that was impossible, because she had been confined to her rooms for entirety of the week in a bout of morning sickness. Still, the silkiness of the strands was rare and expensive, so it took Damen a rather short while to understand what he was seeing, and the impossibility of it extended even further than his first thought. In a rush, he took three strides across the room and pulled on the prisoner’s shoulders until they were face to face and he was looking at Laurent of Vere’s light blue eyes.

Damen bristled. He hadn’t seen the young prince ever since he’d killed his older brother and he’d ignored Laurent’s hateful words over the fields of Marlas. Then, he had only caught a glimpse of how Laurent looked at fourteen, but he remembered even after all this time of the holiness of his appearance. Now Laurent was breaching on his nineteenth name day and he had grown into his own manliness, in a different way than Auguste had at that age but breathtaking all the same. Damen discovered that it was hard staring at him in the face now, despite everything else. He was the spitting image of Auguste, even with his slimmer form and longer face, the same blue eyes spearing into Damen’s proudly even in his current slouch on the marble.

Damen didn’t understand. The last time they’d met, Laurent had been making promises of how he was going to kill him, and now he was in the Akielon capital looking more vulnerable than revengeful. It could be a trick, but Damen didn’t think he would have risked coming here for an overly articulate plan to murder him. Once again, he found himself speechless at the face of the Veretian prince, and looked at Nikandros for help. His friend had a much more severe expression as he stared at Laurent, but he didn’t look like he knew how to treat this situation either. Damen sighed. He didn’t know the first thing to do in a moment like this.

In the end, he didn’t have to do anything, because Laurent bowed deeply in front of him and said, “Exalted.”

Damen startled. It was impossible not to, when he still had the image of Laurent as the arrogant princeling who rode with him in silence through the woods of Arles. Then, Laurent more often than not had to interrupt himself mid-sentence to prevent his voice from breaking and his members were too long for his body. Now he was a made man, tall and strong and the sound of his deep voice caught Damen by surprise, making his breath hitch. A boy no longer, he remembered, now that Laurent was forced to the duties of the Crown Prince he was never supposed to be.

In the years that followed the war, Laurent had earned himself a reputation of detachment and severity that crossed kingdoms. After making the trek back to their country, defeated and without a King due to the minimal age of Ascension being twenty-one, the Veretians had placed the late King’s brother as the Regent. Since, Vere had been ruled by a crude policy sustained by fear and concerned with the pleasantries of Court rather than the recovery of the people and the villages. It was a stark difference from the principles that Damen remembered the two princes of Vere once had, but there had been too much change for him to believe that Laurent remained the same person the princeling in his memory had been.

As it was, Vere was known for being cunning and untrustworthy, in a sense that the courtiers only got their heads out of Court gossip and intrigue long enough to make sure politics were going accordingly to their way. Laurent, as the center piece of the chess board, should be the most set on weaving a network through the palace while he was relegated to a second position during his uncle’s regency. If he was so involved, Damen didn’t know; the words that got to him were those of bitter Veretian nobles who called him a frigid bitch, refusing to participate in the country’s sex-ridden entertainment and preferring to isolate himself in his scheming, even as he controlled his own Court by a tight leash.

Damen found difficult to make of that man the one prostrated on the marble in front of him, his pose the embodiment of that of a slave’s, from the curve of his spine to the way his hands extended on the floor, one over the other. In this position, the purple cape he had on draped to one side, uncovering a worse-for-wear chiton that had once been white but was now soiled with mud and the city’s filth, like Laurent had come to this place by foot, carrying himself amongst the capital’s commoners. Damen would not have made much of it hadn’t this been the Prince of Vere, famous for his prude jackets and distant posture. By their own accord, Damen’s eyes tracked the thin and gentle line of one of his shoulders that was peaking from under the cape, then the curve of his spine and his bare legs, pale as though they had never seen the sun. Plastered to the white marble, he almost seemed to merge with it, looking unassuming the way any other slave would. Damen wondered what it would be like, to have him as one of his slaves, to lift a finger and have him rise and blush under his attentions.

Laurent lifted his head for a minute moment, the way a slave would never dare to do, and the enchantment was broken to make way for confusion. Their countries had been enemies long before Laurent swore to kill him, six years ago, and there was no apparent reason for the Prince to come personally to Akielos. Hidden under a cape and looking very much like he had walked and ridden all the journey here, Damen could only suppose that the purpose of it had been secrecy, and the Prince did not want anyone to know his whereabouts. Knowing this only made him even more dumbfounded.

He looked back at Nikandros, who didn’t seem to know any more than he did, but all the same inquired, “Has he said anything to you?”

“Only that he demanded to speak with you alone about something my little ears have no business hearing,” he said, sourly. He took a step forward and finally pulled his eyes away from the Prince’s form. “He came by himself. The rally at the Eastern gates was one that he caused, but it was only big enough to draw attention. I spent the past hour interrogating him, but he says he will only speak to the King and tells me to not raise any alarm about his presence.”

“He is disposed of any weapons?”

Nikandros nodded. “Yes, Exalted. He made a whole commotion out of handing them to me willingly.”

“Then you are free to go,” said Damen.

“Damen—” said Nikandros, but he stopped himself when Damen’s eyes landed on his, firm. He let go of the handle of his sword and sighed loudly, to make his point known, before bowing and leaving the room. There was no doubt he would stay at the door, on high alert, but Damen couldn’t fault him for being a loyal friend and Kyros.

He turned back to the figure in front of him. Despite the dirty clothes, there was nothing in Laurent’s stance that betrayed his journey, or the reason he had come here. He poised himself marvelously like he had lived with slaves all his life, though his abhorrence to the matter had been made known in all the previous times that Damen had ever seen him, which, in a way, made just to the reputation that he had written for himself—as the cunning and intelligent architect who kept his plans to himself and trusted no one to help him with them. Damen didn’t think his lack of weaponry was enough to warrant him safety, but he took his hands away from his own sword, either way.

“Rise,” said Damen.

Laurent did, gradually. He first unclasped his cape from around his neck then let it fall to the floor. Once he was bare in a thin, nearly see-through chiton, he put a knee to the marble and looked up at Damianos. Slowly he rose, hands flat at his sides like he was ready to surrender to an enemy, and set his posture straight, finally in the likes of a prince.

It was impossible not to wonder. Laurent’s eyes were so similar to Auguste’s in a way that it made difficult to look at him fully without reliving Marlas again and again. He remembered his old friend’s stance on the battlefield, unpoised and bruised, and the way that he had assured that the princes’ duel would be one of honor and well-made promises. At one point, he remembered losing his sword and being flat on his back on the grass, and Auguste’s hesitancy to end him when he was unarmed. Damen couldn’t help imagine what would have been of Vere then, if Auguste had not given him back his sword only to be slaughtered minutes later. With a big brother, Laurent wouldn’t have grown resentful and in the search of vengeance. He wondered what would be seen in Laurent’s eyes then, replacing the coldness which he found now.

Damen measured his words in his mind before he spoke them. It was not such a matter of diplomatic delicacy such as guilt tearing at his insides at each blink of blue eyes. “What is the meaning of this surprise visit? And unsanctioned, I suppose,” said Damen, pointedly looking down at the torn-apart chiton. “Or should I expect other surprises from the Veretian army any time soon?”

The prince didn’t respond right away. He looked in the process of measuring Damen and discovering his worth. He looked much like all the other Veretians that had ever come to Court in Ios, self-aware and arrogant, like he was recalling all the tales from his country about the barbarian Akielos that lived in the South. Finally Laurent said, “If you have the misguided idea that playing dumb will mollify me into spilling my secrets, then I will stop you at once. You are well aware of my condition just by the glance of my ruined clothes and lack of bodyguards. I trust you have not yet received word of my uncle’s actions,” he said, looking at Damen from under his eyelids, “but you will soon.”

“I know it is a foreign custom to you Veretians,” said Damen, “but I will appreciate if you were blunt about this, before I decide to have you removed from the palace’s surroundings.”

“My uncle has taken the country,” said Laurent. “He has convinced the Council that it is all my fault, too.”

Damen stopped breathing for a moment. Then, slowly, “Your uncle is the Regent.”

“Not quite,” said Laurent, lips pressed together. “As of two days ago. Seeing as I am unfit to rule the country, he is next in line, and the new King of Vere.”

He said it matter-of-factly, like it was common knowledge rather than a matter that could rattle countries. Rumors of the Regent’s greed had spread out across the continent before, but Damen had not expected him to act on it when there was only a spring left to Laurent’s ascension. The plan, whatever it had been, was of too much risk for anyone to anticipate it. Even with the support of the majority of the Veretian nobles for the coup, the population would rally at the shift in command when they had already been stripped off of a king and their better crown prince. The troops gathered near the capital, Arles, would have to encompass the entirety of the country’s army, which the Regent did not have full control of, and even then, the moving of that many men would have alerted Damen a long time ago. Everything that Laurent was saying was impossible, if only because no one had seen it coming.

And yet here Laurent was, pride cast aside as he stood inside the Akielon palace, skin for the viewing of all who had crossed paths with him. Damen was not stupid enough to not understand what it was that Laurent sought for in Akielos, but he was not sure that it could be given to him. Warding another nation’s Prince was something that he would barely consider doing at a time of peace, and this was the next king of Akielos’ greatest enemy. If Vere were suffering with the consequences of a coup, the most sensible thing to do was to secure the new King’s rule by ending all those above him in the line of succession. It meant that they wanted Laurent dead, at whatever cost.

“Tell me what it is that you seek here,” said Damen, though he knew the answer already.

“Refuge. Political alliances,” said Laurent. “Political promises.”

“Such as?”

“Unity,” said Laurent, with a loud voice and clear intentions.

The words took time to process in Damen’s mind. Even when they did, he turned them over and over again, until their meaning could not be disputed. He took a step back, eyes wide and disbelieving, until he was seeing all of the Laurent’s form in front of him. “Marriage,” he said. “You must be out of your mind. I have no desire to rule two kingdoms.”

“You will be ruling none quite soon if you choose to refuse my proposition,” the prince said, though he did not explain it further. He looked around the room instead, all white-marbled and light-reflecting, and hummed in approval. “They said this was the Queen’s wing, a long time ago. She was of good taste. Your mother was Patran, wasn’t she? I can see the resembling architecture.”

Damen didn’t answer him, but only because he knew that Laurent was quite well-versed in other royal families’ origins, as a Crown Prince. His eyes were trained on the Veretian as he strolled around the room, never once leaving him, even when he pointed at different marble figures sculpted on the wall and muttered out facts about them that Damen never once thought of knowing. At one at the dead center of the room, from where a chandelier once hung, he nodded and said it was the Veretian god of unconditional love, whom the Patrans had ingrained into their religion and named Juves.

When Laurent had finished the entire round around the room, he went back to where he had been standing in front of Damen and said, finally without riddles, “My uncle has mobilized troops to the edge of Delfeur. It is the reason I learned of the coup before it was too late for me to escape. They must have arrived by now, but I imagine that he’s kept them on standby during his hunt for me. It will not take him long to presume me dead, or seeking refuge in a neighboring country, and then he will attack, and you will lose Delfeur.”

Damen’s thoughts went back to the Council meeting he’d just managed to escape from. “Why have I not been informed about this?”

“Because despite what they say, it is my uncle who has the blood of a snake, and he has his fangs well stuck in your brother’s throat. Or is it yet another piece of news that your brother is scheming to push you off the throne?”

It was not, in a way; Nikandros had been whispering it in his year for months now, long before he learned of his brother’s personal treachery towards him. Still, it was hard for Damen to acknowledge that the Kastor that he grown loving despite their differences could be conspiring against him in such a way. Damen knew, to a certain extent, that his brother resented him for taking kingship away from him simply by being born—a full-blooded relation to the King and Queen—but he had denied Nikandros’ warnings again and again that he might one day be dissatisfied by his position as the Royal General and advisor.

Damen wanted to deny it now, in the face of these discoveries, but the words got stuck in his throat before he did. He remembered the envy in his brother’s eyes when the coronation had taken place, soon after his father’s sickness had taken him. At the time he had attributed it to grief. It was not so much, now. Just a couple of months ago Kastor had begun rebelling against him, pushing his limits until he had them well delimited. The Military Council was friendlier with him than with Damianos himself, their King; Jokaste, who Damen had sworn to love and care for, had jumped to his bed and was now pregnant with his child; and the army was loyal to him as he was the general that commanded them. It was a coup taking place—only one that Damen had no proof of.

Laurent seemed to sense his hesitations. “I should have known you would deny the truth, Damianos,” he said. “I remember the hero worship you had for him when we first met. Very well. If you don’t believe me, I will let you go to reunite with your generals and find my words truthful. After you have inevitably lost Delfeur because of your brother’s silence, you will come to me with new eyes and a proposition of your own. I will be here, waiting.”

“I have not yet agreed to harbor you,” said Damen. “If what you are saying is true, keeping you here is the act of war your uncle is searching for. It would be wiser of me to let you go, in exchange of Delfeur’s safety.”

Laurent smiled, like he knew the argument was flawed, and bent down to pick up his abandoned cape. After he had put it back on, he said, “Do not fool yourself, Damianos. Delfeur is Vere’s despite whatever you decide to do. He will not want me, because he cannot kill me in front of the eyes of the world. You are already at war,” he drawled, “it is only up to you to admit it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i miss Laurent's frigid bitch days so this is in his honor bye


End file.
